All The Things We Cannot Say
by The Goliath Beetle
Summary: Why is it so hard to wish your brother happy birthday? -India, Pakistan, and the blood, tears and politics that make them who they are- One-shot.


All The Things We Cannot Say

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 **A/N:** _ **This will be slightly political, mentioning topics in Indian and Pakistani relations that can have very polarising opinions. I am liberal, and this fic does not in the slightest way promote any view point but that of**_ _ **universal peace and friendship**_ _ **.**_

* * *

 **Flights between UK and India are apparently nine hours long.**

 **Pakistan is four hours ahead of UK.**

 **India is thirty minutes ahead of Pakistan.**

* * *

 _It's simple. Everyone does it. Pick up the cell phone, choose the contact, and call. It's simple. So simple._

* * *

"…following the trade deals, the resulting boost to the econo—India, are you listening?"

India's eyes snapped up to Britain, who looked at him with a slight frown. They were in England's London flat, drinking tea by the small table at the window. And India kept staring at his phone.

"Of course I'm listening," he replied, leaning forward. "You were talking about Brexit."

England grimaced. "No! I was talking about boosting economic ties with the Commonwealth—it doesn't matter, what's up with you?"

Cup between his lips, India stared mutely into England's searching green eyes, his teeth sucking on the ceramic without actually swallowing any tea. When he put the cup down on the saucer, it was with exaggerated aesthetic grace, because the dancer-like arm movements distracted him a little.

England's question was a stupid one anyway. There was a reason he was here in London on August 14th, drinking tea with his former colonial master. Arthur had personally invited him for a 'cuppa and a bit of chit-chat'. Not that this was in any way awkward. India could use the diversion.

His phone, however, kept dinging away. Most of them were news updates he ignored, because news was always negative. Some were texts from his friends for tomorrow's plans. India kept staring at the icon for his Contacts list, as he always did this time of year.

"…What time is it in Pakistan right now anyway?" England asked. They'd known each other long enough, and the three of them shared a mutually bloody history. England could usually guess exactly what India was thinking when it came to his younger brother.

"How the hell should I know?"

* * *

11.07 pm, Islamabad, August 14th

Pakistan couldn't sleep. Although it had been a long, exciting day, he could never really relax on the night of his birthday. In the early years, he'd tried drinking warm milk, or getting a fluffy pillow, listening to calming music, but short of taking a sleeping pill, he never felt remotely lose to sleepy. Not that he wasn't tired. He was exhausted. Half the strain came from thinking about tomorrow.

India didn't call.

Pakistan shouldn't have been surprised, really. There were fresh tensions in Kashmir. Their opinions were so different and their politics so dangerously nuanced. As a nation it was hard for the political to not become personal.

They'd never been friends. Not really. Maybe they never would.

Pakistan was fine with that. He really was. Really. Really.

* * *

11.37 pm, Delhi, August 14th

India always felt a jolt of relief once the plane touched down on home turf. He'd never been truly comfortable flying. But tonight, the steadying stillness of land didn't calm him one bit, and the second he got off his private jet, he had to lean against an airport wall to stop a wave of dizziness.

The scar on his shoulder ached something terrible. His mobile phone told him there were still about twenty minutes more to midnight in India, but perhaps a good fifty odd minutes for 12.00 in Pakistan.

It wasn't like they owed each other anything. They never exchanged birthday presents, barely spoke to each other on a daily basis. If their governments were in constant contact, it was only to exchange passive-aggressive signals to back off, or settle down, or 'do not interfere with our internal matters'. There was enough hostility to justify not making the phone call.

Why should he call, anyway? Really, why should he wish happy birthday to a country essentially carved out of his own back? Hadn't Sindh and Punjab and all of it been part of him? Who was Pakistan to waltz in there and claim it all? What gave him the right? That was pristine land, with so much history and culture. That was India's land!

"Stop it." He splashed some water on his face, staring at his reflection in the shiny airport bathroom mirror. Resentment would get him nowhere. And whatever the past, it was the situation now that mattered.

Right now, it was 11.50 pm.

India felt inexplicably awful. Like he was sad and angry and scared at the same time.

* * *

 _Ring_

 _Ring_

 _Ring_

 _Ring_

Pakistan's eyes opened. He hadn't really been asleep, just lying there feeling things he'd rather not feel, and thinking about too much at once. He reached for his mobile by the pillow, saw the name of the caller and for a moment, just stared.

 _Ring_

 _Ring_

 _Ring—_

"Hello."

* * *

"Hi," India stated, tense, robotic. He sat on an airport chair, then stood and paced a bit, then sat again. "It's 11.57, my time. So. Before it's midnight, and before the 14th ends, happy birthday."

* * *

Pakistan pressed the phone to his ear and stared into the darkness at the slowly turning ceiling fan. "Thank you."

" _Well, it's technically independence day, huh? Should I wish you happy Independence Day instead?"_

"Wishing me happy birthday is fine," Pakistan replied, feeling just as stiff and nervous as India sounded. "I appreciate it."

" _Right. I see. Good. Did you—did you have a pleasant day?"_

"Very festive. I enjoyed myself."

" _That's good. Festive…festive is good."_

Blinking, Pakistan replied, "…yes. Festive is great."

" _Uh-huh. Well. I—I guess I'll leave you to enjoy the rest of your evening. Good night."_

"Good night."

The line went dead so abruptly, Pakistan was mostly convinced India had stabbed the end call icon with his thumb, hard enough to even injure himself a little.

The time on his phone read, 11.30 pm.

Pakistan turned on his side, biting back the smallest of smiles. He couldn't dare admit he was pleasantly relieved by the call. It would be too…too much. Between them, even the smallest signs of affection could be overwhelming.

* * *

The traffic in Delhi wasn't as bad as India was expecting, and his taxi took him smoothly, stopping at each red light even though there was nobody around to stop them from breaking it.

 _Ring_

 _Ring_

 _Ring_

"Lord help me," India muttered when he looked at the caller. Pressing answer, he put it to his ear. "Yes?"

" _It's officially midnight where I am, so it must be around 12.30 there. Happy birthday, India."_

India's stomach did a flip. "Thank you. Thanks a lot."

* * *

Pakistan grinned, sensing the same tone of relief, almost humour, he felt from his brother. "We're seventy now. We're basically old men."

" _Excuse you, I'm a lot older. Thousands of years older. Seventy is just my nation-state age."_

"Not the way I've been taught."

" _Well, you were taught wrong."_

Pakistan laughed softly. "So, I'll leave you to your evening." For some reason he didn't entirely understand, he spoke next in Urdu. " _Shab-bakhayr_."

On the other end of the line, he heard India chuckle. " _Shab-bakhayr, bhai_."

* * *

 _The political was often the personal with them, but hopefully one day, it would become easier to call each other family._

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 **A/N: I told myself that if I ever write a fic with India and Pakistan, I would not write about politics. And what do I do? I write a fic about politics.**

 **You probably already know this, but India and Pakistan have been hostile to each other since virtually the moment they got their independence from Britain. As an Indian with a liberal mindset and a background studying history, this animosity seems especially troubling to me.**

 **Pakistan's independence day is August 14** **th** **1947.**

 **India's is on August 15** **th** **1947.**

 **Culturally there are so many similarities between these two countries that I just – honestly, man, what can I say? Recently there has been another spark of violence in the heavily disputed and deeply troubled region of Kashmir, which has strained Indo-Pakistan relationships once more, and the conflict still continues even as the two nations will celebrate their Independence days. The symbolism didn't escape me.**

 **Here's something interesting. Towards the end of the fic, when they both start speaking in Urdu, I used an Urdu translator (with the Roman spelling of the Urdu words), and I realised that half the phrases I'd wanted to use are what we use in Hindi. The word "bhai" actually has parallels in so many Indian languages that it's just quite astonishing. Urdu, although used more frequently in Pakistan, actually developed from present-day Indian territory, so it's hardly surprising (and that's why, in my head, aph India can speak it fluently.)**

 **Another headcanon is that India has a scar on his shoulder from where (geographically) the nation of Pakistan was carved out of his land.**

 _ **shab-bakhayr,**_ **according to the translator I used, means "good night". What India says in response,** _ **"shab-bakhayr**_ _ **, bhai,"**_ **means "good night, brother."**

 **Thank you for reading! Please review!**


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